


at the burning touch of you

by susiecarter



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, Extra Treat, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Bruce hates going into heat.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 59
Kudos: 591
Collections: Fifth DCEU Fanworks Exchange





	at the burning touch of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BatsAreFluffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatsAreFluffy/gifts).



> This might be a little bit less established an established relationship than you were looking for, BatsAreFluffy—but I hope you enjoy it, and that you've had a great DCEU-Ex! :D
> 
> Title borrowed from the poem [Heat](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=16498) by Katherine Wisner McCluskey.

Bruce hates going into heat.

The signs of its approach are useful. These days, it's considered polite to cover these things up—to refuse to flaunt it, to be respectful of other people's noses and to take responsibility for your own privacy. Whether it's rut or heat you're dealing with, forcing awareness of your intimate conditions on everyone in your immediate vicinity is regarded as grossly inappropriate.

So of course Bruce Wayne is careless with his scent blockers, doesn't always apply them as thoroughly as he should; and the moment anyone gets a whiff across the boardroom conference table, or in a club at an afterparty, they know who it is. They're handed a reminder of what he is. And it's old-fashioned, conservative, but then so are most of the people he deals with in the business world, people who think they can get one over on Bruce Wayne and that his already questionable judgment is surely only compromised further by the fact of his biology.

So: the signs of its approach are useful. He appreciates that utility.

If only he could have that part without needing to then go through the actual heat itself, he'd have no objections.

But as it stands, he hates it. He's always hated it.

And he resents it all the more once he and Clark are together.

If it had been anyone else, Bruce can't help thinking, it wouldn't have been a problem.

He had gotten a certain grim satisfaction, when he was younger, out of handling everything himself. Out of proving that he could, that he didn't need anyone; that he was capable of dealing with his body's idiotic and counterproductive demands on his own. He'd almost relished putting himself through the frustration, the deprivation: toys he'd designed himself instead of the knotted cock his hormones craved—locked doors and cots and water, instead of nesting and company and indulgence. It was enough. It worked.

For a few years there, he'd even half-hoped that he could—could talk his body out of it, almost. Train it into learned helplessness. Let it ask for what it wanted over and over and over again, and never provide, and surely sooner or later it would stop fucking asking.

And if he'd picked another omega, a beta, he probably could have gone on that way. Insisted that he had a system, that it worked as well or better than anything anyone else had ever tried to do for him; that they didn't need to worry about it, and should leave him to it.

But even if he had settled on an alpha after all, it hadn't had to be _Clark_. Because Clark—

Clark makes him _want_ to surrender. Clark makes him want things he's successfully refused to want for decades. Clark makes him betray himself on every possible level, and it isn't even on purpose.

He'd told himself there was no reason to believe Kryptonians even had dynamics. He'd had no reaction whatsoever to the presence or appearance of any of the others, after all.

And then he'd promptly become so thoroughly fixated on Superman that he could barely think about anything else, and had somehow managed to rationalize maneuvering himself into a position where they were face-to-face—face-to-face, within arm's reach. Grabbing each other, pinning each other, throwing each other through walls.

Where Superman was touching him, grappling him to the floor; endeavoring with every motion to force him to submit.

He hadn't let it get the better of him. He'd clung to that rationalization so hard that in the end it had been Clark lying there with _Bruce's_ boot on his chest.

But in retrospect, it had been excruciatingly obvious.

He'd only learned the full story afterward. After Clark had come back to life; after Clark had forgiven him.

Kryptonians have dynamics. But their entire population, for centuries, millennia, had been genetically modified—had had those inconvenient and unnecessary gene sequences deactivated.

Deactivated, but not eliminated. Clark had been born naturally, had gone unmodified. In him, those gene sequences had never been turned off.

He's an alpha. And long, long before they'd even kissed for the first time, Bruce's entire hindbrain had been on its knees begging for him.

It's ridiculous. Infuriating. Bruce despises it. But the body he's deliberately and systematically starved of all that it wants most is very much aware that Clark is one of the few alphas in the world who can actually plausibly subdue Batman physically—one of the few from whom Bruce could only wrest back control if Clark chose to allow it, without kryptonite in hand. And the rest of him—

The rest of him is, for once, equally weak.

Clark doesn't seem to care that Bruce is no one's picture of the ideal omega, that Bruce Wayne is an inappropriate choice and Bruce himself is a worse one. That Bruce beat him half to death, that Bruce is scarred and bitter and relentlessly uncooperative.

Clark is patient, generous, attentive. Clark argues with Bruce when he thinks Bruce is wrong, and gives way without shame or self-consciousness when he thinks Bruce is right. He can be difficult, frustrating. He can be stubborn. But when he pushes, he expects Bruce to push back. He doesn't expect submission; and for some reason that has only ever made Bruce more recklessly desperate to give it to him.

They've been together for months by the time Bruce's heat rolls around again.

They haven't talked about it, haven't made plans. For all Bruce knows, Clark doesn't want to deal with it—is hoping Bruce has other arrangements in mind.

Clark can smell it. Clark must be able to smell it. Even the specialized blockers Bruce formulated himself for use while he's in uniform can't possibly be enough to trick Superman's senses.

But he doesn't say a word about it. Not until Bruce does.

It's late. They're in the Hall. Bruce estimates that he has forty-eight hours left at the absolute most. Ever since they started sleeping together, ever since Bruce finally managed to earn himself the chance to fall asleep in sheets that smell of Clark, to taste Clark's mouth and ride Clark's cock and surround himself with Clark whenever he chooses, he's been aware that there's no way his body is going to put up with half-measures anymore. Clark is—Clark is _his_. He's Clark's. He wants to be Clark's, god help him.

He has to say it. He has to.

"Two days."

Clark looks up. He's been watching Bruce work, going over the armor a piece at a time, doing tests, making adjustments.

"Two—?"

"At the most."

Clark bites his lip. "You mean—"

Christ. Why does this have to be the time he refuses to jump to conclusions? Bruce makes himself breathe, and looks away again. "You must be able to smell it."

"Yeah," Clark admits.

Bruce lets his eyes fall shut. God, maybe forty-eight hours was too generous. Even that, hearing Clark say that, voice low and a little rough—the spiking itching warmth just under the surface of Bruce's skin, the sneaking urge of his thighs to part, the pooling want that won't leave him alone, it all sharpens at once.

At least he isn't aroused enough to be wet. Not yet.

"I—didn't want to presume," Clark's saying, softer still. "I know you don't usually decide to have anyone."

Bruce swallows, and digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek, allows the word to escape from his aching throat: "Presume."

He makes himself look. Clark is staring at him, eyes huge and dark, breathing picking up, pulse visible at the base of his throat; he watches Bruce look at him, and then holds Bruce's gaze and takes a deep deliberate breath through his nose, and his eyes go heavy, half-lidded. "Jesus," he whispers, and stands up, rounds the worktable. "You have no idea. I've wanted to—I've been trying not to—you smell _so fucking good_ —"

He's behind Bruce now, gripping Bruce's shoulders, all the solid strength of him pressed up against Bruce's back, his face at the nape of Bruce's neck: breathing Bruce in again, again, deliberate. Bruce makes a pointless, wordless sound in his throat and finds himself turning under Clark's hands, pressing their mouths together, kissing Clark with all the furious urgency he'd managed to keep out of his voice.

He's so fucking empty. He's always been so fucking empty. And he knew the moment he saw Clark that Clark could fill him to the brim—he's been afraid of it, he's hated it and resented it and been furious about it, but it's always been true.

" _Bruce_ ," Clark says into Bruce's mouth, grips the nape of Bruce's neck and squeezes hard, and Bruce feels his whole spine go liquid and presses himself into Clark's hands, briefly and mindlessly shameless.

He twists away the barest degree, lips slack against Clark's jaw. "Yes," he grits out. "Yes. Come on."

There's nothing on the worktable that can't be replaced; no prototypes, nothing explosive. He's—he's never had anyone fuck him through the creeping mounting rawness of pre-heat, either.

But, as so many other things are with Clark, it turns out to be exceptional.

In the end, it's more like thirty-six hours.

He wakes in his bed, his suite in the Hall, and he can tell already. The sun is higher than it should be, the hour later than he'd ever sleep otherwise. And it's—it's worse than it's ever been before, hotter; he's wet already, slick between his legs, and he was dreaming it had started, dreaming Clark was holding him down by the throat and pressing into him an inch at a time—

He squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks about it: about a bare little room, a cot, toys and no one to use them on him except himself.

He could do it. But he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to. And that's never mattered to him before, but with Clark, it does. With Clark, he's selfish and irrational and impossibly greedy, and he wants Clark to touch him, to have him, to _take_ him, more than he's ever wanted anything else in his life.

"Clark," he bites out against the sweat-streaked sheets. " _Clark_. Fuck—"

He swallows the rest of it. He still has enough control of himself for that.

He pants into the quiet, skin prickling, heart pounding. He forces himself to count out the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

And then a soft impact, touchdown, on the balcony that adjoins his suite—a rush of air, of motion, the doors opening and closing again so fast the glass sings, and Clark is there.

"Sorry," he's saying, "I'm sorry, I had to let Lois know I was taking the rest of the week." And then he stops, and sucks in a sharp breath, and says, "Jesus, Bruce—"

Bruce tangled himself in the sheets while he was asleep, tossing and turning, dreaming of Clark. He is, he realizes dimly, naked otherwise. He hadn't been aware of it before, but last night he must have—the pre-heat must have been strong enough that he'd stripped down before bed, subconsciously aware that he'd only be more uncomfortable later if he didn't. He's hard, hot and obvious, and he must smell like—he doesn't know, he can't tell, because every breath he breathes in is full of Clark: green leaves in sunshine, crisp shining apples, the barest hint of something sharp and bitter that skirts just shy of ozone and only brings the rest of his scent into clearer focus.

But whatever it is, Clark is suffocating in it. His eyes have gone dark again, and he's breathing hard, stare fixed helplessly on Bruce, clumsily yanking at the buttons on his shirt, fingers blurring with superspeed. He gets the front halfway open and then swears, voice deep and ragged, and tears it the rest of the way, and watching his chest and shoulders work is enough to make Bruce's thighs part all by themselves.

He speeds through the rest even faster—Bruce thinks the remains of his belt might literally be smoking from the friction, where he's tossed them to the floor. He climbs onto the bed, whispers, " _Bruce_ ," and slides his fingers into Bruce's hair, grips tight and tilts Bruce's face up and kisses him.

Kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him; hard, deep, full of tongue, like he knows exactly how desperately empty Bruce feels right now, like he wants to reassure Bruce that he understands and he's going to fix it.

And god, it's good. It's so much better than being alone. Bruce gasps raggedly against Clark's mouth, clearheaded with relief—and then he breaks away, twists his face to one side, because he's still mostly himself and he needs to say this now, while there's a chance Clark will believe him.

"Wait," he says.

Clark goes still, opens his hand in Bruce's hair; doesn't let go, doesn't pull away, but isn't holding on tight anymore.

"Before it's too much," Bruce says, "before I can't think, you should—I—" He stops, and clears his throat, and makes himself look Clark in the eye. "If I ask you to bite me, I'll mean it."

Clark swallows.

He doesn't ask if Bruce is sure. He must be well aware that Bruce would have to be about sixteen steps past that to have gotten the words out of his mouth at all.

"Okay," he says, hoarse. "All right." And then he bites his lip and lets his eyes fall shut, leans down and presses his forehead to Bruce's.

It's stupid, ridiculous. They're naked, hard, curled into and around each other on Bruce's bed, with Bruce so wet the sheets are sticking to his ass, his thighs; but all they're doing is lying there, foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing each other's air.

And then Clark moves, presses his cheek to Bruce's temple, to his jaw—mouths at the side of Bruce's throat, just left of where a bite would go. Bruce tenses, helpless, making a thin needy sound at the back of his throat, and Clark says, " _God_ ," against the underside of his jaw and gropes blindly down to press Bruce's thighs apart.

The first time is fast. Clark pushes his fingers inside Bruce to start with, even though Bruce is more than slick enough to take him, panting for it, rolling his hips and digging his heels into Clark's thighs like he can make Clark fuck him if he just gets the right leverage. Clark uses his free hand to touch Bruce everywhere he can reach, his waist and the small of his back as much as his ass, his thighs, his cock—licks, next, starts sucking him off, steady hard pressure that drives Bruce relentlessly higher.

But Bruce doesn't come, not until Clark finally starts to fuck him.

After that, everything gets hazier, shimmering with heat. Bruce remembers digging his fingertips, his nails, into the muscles of Clark's back and shoulders, aware that even if he used every ounce of strength in him, he couldn't hurt Clark—dizzy, giddy, with the reassurance of his own inability to cause harm, the certainty that Clark can protect him even from himself, even from his own worst failings. He remembers Clark's hands on him, holding him open, pinning him down; he remembers pushing back against their strength, straining, for the sheer incandescent joy of failing, of being so thoroughly Clark's in every way. He remembers Clark's cock in him, huge and hard and so exactly what he needed that he'd sobbed with gratitude for it, dry hoarse heaves of breath. He remembers the blissful understanding that there was nothing for him to do, that his concentration and attention were not needed—that all he had to do was let Clark take him, let Clark take care of him. That he bore no responsibility for his own pleasure: that it would be given to him, without condition or expectation.

And he remembers other things, too. Clark's face, intent; Clark's eyes, on him every moment, drinking him in with relentless thirst. Clark fucking into him with a steady driving rhythm, deeper with every stroke—clutching him close, breathing soft wet sounds into the hollow of his throat as the base of Clark's cock began to swell. Clark knotting him, over and over and over, holding him tight and kissing his face, his throat, while they were tied. He'd—he'd clutched at Clark, gritted, "Give it to me, _give it to me_ ," and Clark had obeyed him every time.

He'd expected it to happen sometime then. Deep in the throes of it, unable to prevent himself from demanding what he knew he wanted most. He'd been warning Clark: he was going to ask for it, and he was going to mean it. He'd meant for it to be up to Clark to decide whether to do it, to let himself be tied to Bruce by an actual bond.

But that isn't how it goes.

He comes back to himself after maybe eighteen hours, if he had to guess. Clark's still inside him, and he finds himself dimly relishing the fullness of it, the delicious stretch, with a strange sort of pride: that he can take it, take _Superman_ , take everything Clark has to give him.

"Bruce," Clark is murmuring, in between gentle brushes of his mouth against the column of Bruce's throat.

Bruised, Bruce thinks. He can feel the ache, the heat, where Clark sucked marks into his skin. Bruised, and bruised hard.

But not bitten.

He's on his back, Clark between his thighs; draped over him, holding him gathered close. Bruce reaches up and slides his fingers into Clark's curling hair, and says, "Clark."

Clark looks up. The room is dark, now, dim pre-dawn light only just starting to filter in through the windows. But he must be able to see Bruce perfectly anyway.

Bruce holds on tighter, clenches his thighs, his ass. Clark bites down on a gasp and shifts helplessly inside him.

"Do it," Bruce says, and then falters, swallowing. "If you—if—"

"Jesus Christ, shut up," Clark murmurs, voice cracking, and then crowds in to press his mouth to Bruce's throat again. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, tips his chin up: bares himself.

Clark's teeth barely hurt at all. Bruce jerks and pushes up into the bite, grips the back of Clark's head and feels his throat working helplessly, and Clark makes a sharp sound and bites harder.

Bonds never set right away. But Bruce thinks he can feel the barest flicker of it anyway. Clark, just like always: sunshine, and apples, and the thin heady heights of the stratosphere. But it isn't just a scent anymore, it's—he's there, present, touching Bruce so much deeper than skin.

Fuck, Bruce thinks dizzily. He shouldn't have done this. He shouldn't have done this to Clark—

Warm-fond-resigned-bewildered, dim tender frustration; don't even, Clark's thinking. Don't even start.

He lets go of Bruce's throat, smooths his tongue over the marks his teeth left. He's shyly pleased, hot with possessive gladness, at the same time. He wants to hold Bruce like this all day long, look after him, give him whatever he wants, fuck him ten more times. He loves this, loves that Bruce trusted him with this, loves that Bruce wants him—chose him.

"You're an idiot," Bruce says into his hair.

"Your idiot," Clark agrees, hoarse and sweet and exhilarated by the truth of it.

And Bruce closes his eyes and presses his cheek to Clark's, and doesn't argue, because he isn't wrong.


End file.
